The bite
by eglantine-br
Summary: Mages and templars do not touch, usually. Please let me know what you think


Mages and Templars do not touch. They live in the tower together, but they are nothing alike. They are set in balanced opposition, in an arched balance of intention. Only this keeps magic serving man. Only the stringent unswerving templars can keep the circle pure.

He found himself thinking there was more to it than that. The mage apprentices had one day off in every seven. They were children after all. They needed rest. Templars, even those of the same age are _men._

His fingers were nimble on the buckles of his plastron, quick on the leather straps of his gr eaves. For each piece of armor he murmured a prayer. The others arming in the room chattered of mornings. They even spoke of – of _ that._ But this templar was devout.

Maker, arm me against temptation

By your intercession.

Maker, arm me against pride

By your mercy.

Maker, arm me against corruption,

By your strength.

Now, he was ready for the day.

The templars had their own staircase, it wound three dusty stories down from the barracks. That morning, even as he clattered down to the yard he could hear the little mages shouting and playing.

He came out through the arched doorway, and into the exercise yard.

There, the sun was good on his shoulders, the sword was good in his hand. He felt the slick of sweat begin on his chest, and under his arms. His neck prickled with it.

Each day began the same way, as he clashed and strove with his cohort. Each night, in his sleep, his muscles knit more strongly, his bones grow more heavy, and his chest broadens to hold more air. He did not know this, he only realized that his dreams had become more troubling.

Maker, arm me against pollution,

By your vigilance.

He prayed with fervor, most mornings.

Now, looking up, pushing up his sweat soaked curls, he saw that the Knight-Commander had come into the courtyard. The older man leaned against the wall, drinking tea, observing them. So, he was there when the accident happened.

The sound of the mage children at play came by the tower's open window, a story up, and suddenly loud.

"Jowan, wait, oh give it back. It's mine. I'll get you, you!" He heard the sound of running feet, and a girls laughter, free and strange.

He was looking up, but the still had barely time to jump back. The girl blurred by him in a flash of face and white limbs flailing. She hit the ground with a sickening snap.

Templars and mages do not touch , but the Knight-Commander Gregoire was there in an instant, he knelt beside her in the dust and mud. Expertly, the older man ran his hands over her face and neck, and rolled her face up. His face darkened.

"You," he pointed, "Come here."

"Yes, Knight Commander."

"Kneel behind her like this. Take your gauntlets off son, you may need to hold her hard if she wakes up."

"Yes, Knight Commander."

"I need to reposition this now, it is no favor to her to wait until she wakes.."

He felt the Knight Commander set the little mage back against him, into his arms.

"Hold here."

"Yes, Knight Commander."

Now the boy could see the terrible injury to her hand, with the finger out of true, and the visible gleam of white bone.

"Steady now."

Gregoire moved the hand decisively, strongly. She woke. Her body arched in pain, and he held her hard against his chest. The injured hand was rock-steady in the Knight Commander's grip.

The mage girl was brave. She barely made a sound. She gasped, and rocked her head against his forearm. He felt the brush of her hair, against his bare wrist. Her free hand clawed the air, and now, to his shock, he felt her face, her mouth. Her sharp little teeth closed on his wrist, struggling against the pain, biting slowly, piercing his skin.

"There now, all done." The Knight Commander said.

"What a brave girl you are. Can you sit up? Good, good. Help her to her feet now, and get her to the infirmarian. They'll get some poultices into her."

The boy raised her to her feet, and her face lifted to him, it was white to the lips and damp with sweat. He had barely time to jump back as her vomit spattered the ground.

"Sorry." She whispered, and gave a dry little sob. Her eyes were fixed somewhere at the level of his chin. Maker, she was small, a child.

The tower was dim and cool. He kept a hand on her shoulder. He could feel his other wrist throbbing, he could feel each little tooth-mark, each arched shape filling purple with blood He could feel her beside him, drawing a deep breath, gathering more of her courage. She held her broken bleeding hand close to her chest.

"Thank you for helping me. I'm sorry I threw up on you." She was looking at him now. Her eyes were wide and blue.

"It's all right.'

"What is your name?"

"C-Cullen."

The mage girl smiled.


End file.
